either.
I nodded. “Yep. Statistics. And you work pretty closely with numbers, too.” I smiled.
He laughed. “Numbers and I go way back.”
A fellow number-lover. Yes. Someone who might finally understand me and my inability to comprehend humans in all of their crazy complexity. Numbers just were. They were black and white, this or that. Safe.
My cheeks heated up as I looked over at Thomas, so glad Betsy had forced this date on me.
“What do you do when you’re not working on people’s finances?” I asked, sipping at the last bits of my water and pushing the glass to the edge of the table, hoping for a refill.
Thomas’s eyes lit up, much like they had when he’d recognized the wine he liked on the menu.
“House music.”
I almost choked on bread crumbs still lodged in my throat. Or maybe those were my expectations. “Excuse me?”
“I’m a DJ on the side.” He smiled. “For now, that is. I would love to do it for a living, but the music world isn’t known for being very lucrative for people who are just starting out.”
“A DJ.” I repeated the word as I thought, and focused really really hard on not letting my face look bitchy like Betsy said I had the tendency to. I couldn’t help the fact that my list was buzzing in my head, reminding me that this definitely changed things. A sinking feeling in my stomach returned as my conversation with Betsy earlier became louder than the list. I really didn’t want to come off as judge-y or better-than-you. Plus, I was a professor with a Blackjack problem. It wasn’t like I was winning any awards for “most normal” either.
“That’s fun,” I said, finally.
Even though I could put aside the oddness of his hobby, I could not forget the extent to which I hated club music. Actually, the only music I truly loved was more of the classical or big band genre (remember that I grew up with old people). I cleared my throat. I suppose there were such things as headphones.
As if he could read my thoughts and found it necessary to prove me wrong immediately, Thomas pulled out his phone and started to poke his fingertip at the screen.
“I just finished this sick transition last night.” He concentrated on the screen.
My neck started to get red. Did he just use the word “sick”? Wasn’t he in his thirties? Oh no. Why was that phone out? He wasn’t going to —
Music began to blare from the speakers. I ducked instinctively as the sound waves hit me, and peered from side to side as other people looked over at us, brows furrowed in distaste. His loud, synthetic, high-pitched noise felt like it stabbed into every nook and cranny of the small restaurant, completely drowning out the lovely strings music that’d been playing throughout the place. I ducked down even more. My neck was on fire. It must’ve been the color of a fully cooked lobster at that point.
I thought it couldn’t get any worse. That was until he started to dance. First it was only his head, pumping forward with the beat. Then it migrated down to his shoulders. And then it bled into his arms and he began to direct it at me.
“This is the part.” His tongue poked out from his mouth as he danced at me (yes, at me like an assault).
The music faded into a new, but still alarmingly similar, song. Thomas’s dancing reach some sort of climax of intensity and he stopped — no — slowed, moving his arms so they were pointing at me. I felt compelled to wave a hand in front of his face, to see if he was really aware of what he was seeing, but I was too busy tucking myself down into my seat, cringing, peering warily at the other patrons. I really doubt I was giving off “I like this, please continue” vibes.
Luckily, our waiter came by with our wine. His face was pinched.
“Sir, would you please refrain from playing your personal music in this establishment. It is affecting our other customers’ experience.”
Thomas looked up out of his trance. “Oh, sure, dude. Totally.”
Dude?
I nodded. “Yep. Statistics. And you work pretty closely with numbers, too.” I smiled.
He laughed. “Numbers and I go way back.”
A fellow number-lover. Yes. Someone who might finally understand me and my inability to comprehend humans in all of their crazy complexity. Numbers just were. They were black and white, this or that. Safe.
My cheeks heated up as I looked over at Thomas, so glad Betsy had forced this date on me.
“What do you do when you’re not working on people’s finances?” I asked, sipping at the last bits of my water and pushing the glass to the edge of the table, hoping for a refill.
Thomas’s eyes lit up, much like they had when he’d recognized the wine he liked on the menu.
“House music.”
I almost choked on bread crumbs still lodged in my throat. Or maybe those were my expectations. “Excuse me?”
“I’m a DJ on the side.” He smiled. “For now, that is. I would love to do it for a living, but the music world isn’t known for being very lucrative for people who are just starting out.”
“A DJ.” I repeated the word as I thought, and focused really really hard on not letting my face look bitchy like Betsy said I had the tendency to. I couldn’t help the fact that my list was buzzing in my head, reminding me that this definitely changed things. A sinking feeling in my stomach returned as my conversation with Betsy earlier became louder than the list. I really didn’t want to come off as judge-y or better-than-you. Plus, I was a professor with a Blackjack problem. It wasn’t like I was winning any awards for “most normal” either.
“That’s fun,” I said, finally.
Even though I could put aside the oddness of his hobby, I could not forget the extent to which I hated club music. Actually, the only music I truly loved was more of the classical or big band genre (remember that I grew up with old people). I cleared my throat. I suppose there were such things as headphones.
As if he could read my thoughts and found it necessary to prove me wrong immediately, Thomas pulled out his phone and started to poke his fingertip at the screen.
“I just finished this sick transition last night.” He concentrated on the screen.
My neck started to get red. Did he just use the word “sick”? Wasn’t he in his thirties? Oh no. Why was that phone out? He wasn’t going to —
Music began to blare from the speakers. I ducked instinctively as the sound waves hit me, and peered from side to side as other people looked over at us, brows furrowed in distaste. His loud, synthetic, high-pitched noise felt like it stabbed into every nook and cranny of the small restaurant, completely drowning out the lovely strings music that’d been playing throughout the place. I ducked down even more. My neck was on fire. It must’ve been the color of a fully cooked lobster at that point.
I thought it couldn’t get any worse. That was until he started to dance. First it was only his head, pumping forward with the beat. Then it migrated down to his shoulders. And then it bled into his arms and he began to direct it at me.
“This is the part.” His tongue poked out from his mouth as he danced at me (yes, at me like an assault).
The music faded into a new, but still alarmingly similar, song. Thomas’s dancing reach some sort of climax of intensity and he stopped — no — slowed, moving his arms so they were pointing at me. I felt compelled to wave a hand in front of his face, to see if he was really aware of what he was seeing, but I was too busy tucking myself down into my seat, cringing, peering warily at the other patrons. I really doubt I was giving off “I like this, please continue” vibes.
Luckily, our waiter came by with our wine. His face was pinched.
“Sir, would you please refrain from playing your personal music in this establishment. It is affecting our other customers’ experience.”
Thomas looked up out of his trance. “Oh, sure, dude. Totally.”
Dude?
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